Every Effort
by patientalien
Summary: Following the events of "The Regulator", Lucas makes a life-altering decision.


**Title:** Every Effort  
**Author:** Diena Taylor  
**Season:** First  
**Spoilers:** The Regulator  
**Rating:** R for graphic violence and suicide   
**Archive:** ELF Command, anywhere else please ask first   
**Author Notes:** this story is extremely open-ended in that it involved *implied* character death. It also involves graphic descriptions of various acts of self-injury (ie. suicide). This story isn't for everyone.  
**Disclaimer:** Lucas Wolenczak, Nathan Bridger, Kristin Westphalen, Ben Krieg, and The Regulator belong to Universal and Amblin Entertainment and are being used for entertainment purposes only. 

* * *

I can't say I've never thought about it before. I mean, who hasn't at some point in their life? I'll bet the possibility has even crossed Krieg's mind. So I'm no different than anyone else, of course. It's not weird or sick to have thought about it - to be thinking about it. To be holding the means in my hands, turning it over, feeling it, memorizing every nuance of its being. It's a common thing, to stand and wait for the courage to come. 

The courage to end it all. 

I've read the statistics, the studies. It's far less uncommon than people - other people - would like us to believe. So it won't be too out-of-the-ordinary if I were to act on this sudden burst of courage that has me pressing cold steel against the inside of my wrist. It won't be too much of a stretch in the logic of the statistics and studies if I were to be found tomorrow, likened to the Regulator only this time, with me, it won't be faked. 

I'll really be dead. 

And aren't I the most likely candidate? Aren't I the one all those child psychologists profile when writing those little warnings to parents in magazine articles every couple months? It's like those researchers spent a week in my life, and then put all the aspects that would make it completely obvious that I have all the makings of your average teenage victim of suicide. A broken home, check. Isolation from peers, double check (after all, how much more isolated can you be as a child genius on a nuclear submarine?). I could go on, but I'm sure you've read the articles. 

I think I might have worried the captain and Dr. Westphalen the other day, when we found out about Leslie Farina's past. _The genius who's every effort failed..._ the captain had said. Well, maybe every effort I've ever made hasn't failed. The vo-coder works better than I ever could have hoped for, and I have a dozen other patents here and there that have been successful. Not to mention the hologram in the captain's room. The hologram from which we learned the truth about the man known as the Regulator. 

Perhaps in the scientific field I've been more successful than some, but it doesn't really matter, because I'm completely miserable. _And then he fakes a suicide to escape the ridicule of his peers._ I don't have any peers - not here, anyway. I think Darwin's the closest to my age, but I'm not sure that really counts. I could hear the acid tone the captain's voice had taken on the words "fakes a suicide", and I could feel, rather than see, both his and Dr. Westphalen's eyes trained on me. I could tell that neither one was pleased that I thought - and still think - that the Regulator is actually saner than most. 

Even so. There is one thing that Leslie Farina said to me that I didn't understand at the time. Well, maybe I did and didn't want to acknowledge that I knew what he meant. I told him that at least I didn't have to fake suicide to sleep at night. I don't know exactly why I said that - maybe to prove to Bridger and myself and whoever else was listening that I _wasn't_ like the Regulator - even though I was - I am. But the captain had been on my case about whether or not I was lonely and whatever, so I guess I felt the need to prove him wrong. _I don't have to fake suicide to sleep at night._ No, not _fake_ suicide. 

"You're young," Leslie Farina had told me in reply. "There's still time." At the time, I didn't think about it too carefully, but I had heard it. So had Bridger, I could tell. I watched him try to gauge my reaction, but I wouldn't give anyone the pleasure of seeing me respond or react. On the way back to the seaQuest, I made sure that I talked to the Regulator and didn't look in Bridger's direction - I didn't want him to ask what I had meant by my comment. But once Leslie Farina left.... then I really started thinking. What had he meant? _You're young. There's still time._

But I've figured it out. I figured out at the age of sixteen what he hadn't learned until he had been at least in his thirties. Sometimes death - even supposed death - is easier to deal with than the everyday ache of living. _I don't need to fake suicide to sleep at night._ He had honestly thought that I had never considered it before. He had told me, in so many words, that I was too young to understand that death is a way out. That there was still time for me to realize that. Well, Leslie, I've realized that now. And while I may not need to fake suicide to sleep at night, I'll be able to fall asleep a lot easier now knowing that I will never wake up. 

All I need to do now is press down. Press down and the cold, steel, newly-sharpened blade will release my life's blood and I'll drift into oblivion. This hadn't been my first choice, of course. The easiest and quickest is to just put a bullet in my head. I can see their faces, their varying expressions of horror as they see blood and brain splattered angrily across the glass of the aqua tunnel, I see them trying to save me but knowing it's too late just by looking at the gaping hole in the side of my skull, blank eyes staring up at them.... But then again, I don't have a lot of access to weapons, even on a military sub. 

I couldn't think of anywhere to attach a noose that wouldn't attract attention. The only place high enough with the right kind of ceiling is the Moon Pool, and there are _always_ people around. My only hope would be to wait until shore leave or something, when no one but a skeleton (wow, bad pun) crew is around. They'd see the shadow first, when they walked in. They'd think it was a figment of their imaginations, but then they'd slowly trace the rope shadow up until they spotted my sneakers. Once they realized that whoever was hanging there was actually _real_ and not a hallucination, their eyes would snap up and stare at my bruised neck, my face - turning slightly blue from lack of blood flow. But I don't think I can wait that long, until the next shore leave. 

Doc Westphalen keeps all the stronger medications locked up, and even I know better than to ask for a prescription for something she knows I don't need. Besides, there's too big a margin of error on overdoses - I should know. That margin of error is why I'm still here anyway. Damn margin. If it had worked the first time, I wouldn't have had to bother with coming up with a new plan. So here I am, pressing down on my now-bruising wrist with my pocket knife (bought on a whim last shore leave), waiting for the right moment to make the final cut and bring darkness. 

Please forgive me. 

* * *

To be continued... 


End file.
